Friday, May 28, 2010

because god loves me so much, i am friends with more frat boys than i'm comfortable admitting to in public. i don't know why or how it happens. maybe because i like to get drunk? but i don't like to punch dudes in the face or date rape skinny white girls when i've been drinking, so that shouldn't be the reason why. maybe it's because i look so good in a white baseball cap and cargo shorts.

god, i just have SO MANY. big pink hunks of meat who go to cubs games and party in wrigleyville and date interchangeable faceless blondes in tight black pants and make so much money doing whatever it is you do when you ride the brown line to the loop in a suit every morning. dudes who say "bro" and smash into each other for laughs and eat so much food and pass out drunk in the street and are always fucking sunburned and way too fucking loud.

and the FIGHTING. what is with all of the fucking FIGHTING? jeff and i were out at smartbar once and a fight broke out in front of the gingerman (or rockit or yakzies you know where the fuck i'm talking about) and not only did we hear the awful crunch of one dude's fist breaking against another dude's jaw, we watched that same dude PICK UP A METAL GARBAGE CAN and REPEATEDLY THROW IT DOWN ON THE OTHER DUDE'S HEAD. in the middle of clark street! at eleven o'clock at night! it was like that scene in boyz in the hood when that crackhead snatches off dookie's chain and they chase him and beat his ass and drop a garbage can on him. just swap "poor inner-city drug gang los angeles" for "privileged north side trust fund shitfaced." TERRIFYING.sunday morning i was at karen's and those fucking dogs got me up at FIVE-THIRTY to be let out and fed. this is why i have a cat. just saying. the big one wakes all 175 of his pounds up, then the skinny one follows suit, and they stand at the side of the bed jingling their tags and breathing moist, hot eukanuba in my face until i pry my eyes open and crawl down the stairs to shiver at the back door while they fertilize the yard. then i have to stand guard while they eat and make sure one doesn't murder the other over a runaway piece of kibble or curd of cottage cheese, then take them out AGAIN, feed the fish and watch for a few minutes while they swim up from the bottom to eat, remember that i am standing outside in full view of the neighbors who can totally see my areolas right now, then race inside and shiver at the back door some more until the dogs finish crapping. AGAIN.

it's too much work for that time of morning. work i would never do unless1 i was being paid or2 a smokin' manfriend with fantastic testicles asked me to do it. if i'm drunk or tired i fill helen's bowl to the top right before i go to bed, and if she bothers me before i'm ready to get up i just push her off the bed in the direction of the food bowl.

anyway, i'd left my phone in her truck and wanted to get the freshly-delivered sunday times so i ventured outside in my sleeping clothes (god, if you only knew the hotness of that mess) to collect the paper and get my phone. i had approximately seven thousand missed calls and texts and voicemails and my phone was lit up like christmas, so i checked a few (voicemails are boring unless they are from hot dudes) while i contemplated how awful driving to starbucks in gaucho pants, bare feet, and a shirt that was 97% exposed tits would be on a scale of 1 to daytime hooker.

dudebro, my dude-iest, bro-iest frat-iest friend BY FAR, had texted me 911 ten times overnight, and had left a handful of voicemails. there were a whole lot of "sam, call me back" and "are you passed out somewhere? why haven't you called me?" and the truth is, i hadn't had time to call him back because i was out doing missionary work and wet nursing homeless crack babies and ministering to the sick and plugging oil leaks and putting an end to nuclear proliferation and clearing that little misunderstanding in afghanistan up. so stop blowing up my fucking phone. i'm busy saving the world.

seriously, though, i had two glasses of chenin blanc and a benedryl before i went to bed and didn't have a care in the world, especially not dealing with the "problems" of a spoiled brat whose entire wardrobe consists of shit from abercrombie and express men. pffft.

stop. i have to pause right here because laura just walked in and handed me a frosty thai iced coffee from cozy, and i would be willing to give up human contact for the rest of my life if i could have one of these a couple times a day. especially if they were delivered by a sweaty, masculine dude in a loincloth. (what? i can look without touching.) they are OBVIOUSLY made of cardamom and condensed milk and jesus urine, and once a month i get to have one and it makes my day absolutely better. you know what's gross but totally awesome that i probably shouldn't disclose to hundreds of judgmental bastards on the internet? when i finish the coffee i pour a can of diet coke in the cup and drink that, too. it's glorious.

i called him back because, ultimately, i am a sweetheart under all this moldy, crusty exterior. you bitches know it. i just talk a tough game. he answered on the first ring, then explained to me that he needed my help wooing some beautiful temptress with whom he'd been on several dates yet hadn't closed the deal with. as much as i write every single day that i get tired of helping dudes put their dicks in somebody ELSE, i am still a good friend (read: SUCKER) and help you do it anyway.

dudebro is at the point in his life where he wants to start THINKING ABOUT settling down (i love how much of an arduous process that is for you stupid manfriends), and he's out five or six nights a week auditioning and interviewing potential candidates for mrs. boring in the suburbs three kids and a dog and a lexus suv. well i'm at the point in my life where all i want to do is heat up lean cuisines and drink vodka and sext my stunt penis, so i'm probably the PERFECT person to play cupid for some asshole.

you know i don't believe in driving a car off the lot before you've seen how it handles city traffic, and neither does dude. so he invited brittany over to his fancy condo for dinner so that he could try to find out whether the carpet matched the drapes. he read in a magazine or some shit that chicks really go for a man that can cook, so he figured he'd saute his way into her chonies.

i think that cooking for someone is the sexiest fucking thing you could ever do. i've spent more time being salty that i'd wasted a delicious handmade, home-cooked meal on a raggedy dude than i have regretting some ass i gave up. for cereal. i like to exert as little REAL or EMOTIONAL effort as possible, and i disconnected my heart from my vagina YEARS ago. you girls who fall in love the second a dude sticks the tip in are a mystery to me. i don't have to love a dude to fuck him, and i don't fall in love just because we fucked. i know it's not romantic, but it's real. i feel much worse when i actually care about someone's well-being and he doesn't give it back to me or if i make something for someone who isn't appreciative. and the only shit i know how to make are excellent mixtapes that rule, and amazing meals that are delicious.

but there was one problem. DUDE CAN'T COOK. so, despite the fact that i was hungover and scantily dressed, i found my sunglasses where i'd left them in karen's basement next to the washing machine and dragged myself out to her car to drive to the south loop and help my handsome friend make a meal for someone else's vagina. i should be nominated for sainthood. FOR CEREAL.

i put on a little blood sweat and tears ("more and more" is the greatest song on the face of the earth and if you don't agree please kill yourself thank you) and turned it up to "black person driving a nice car" levels, got a mocha AND a latte (i cannot have a car, because i would go through the drive-thru starbucks nine times a day and totally be homeless), then jumped on lake shore drive. sunday mornings are where it's at, man. i am a confident, aggressive driver, and other people on the road make me spitting fucking mad, and thankfully they are all asleep or at church or still at the club (good LORD, it was early) and not clogging up the road.

to my surprise dudebro was downstairs waiting when i got there, and he jumped in the car and offered "i grocery shop as much as you do" as an explanation. good enough. so off we went to this fancy downtown grocery store where all of the fruit looked colorful and healthy and like it might actually be good for you. I HAVE TO MAKE SOME MORE FUCKING MONEY. or i need a sugardaddy. because i would totally shop all the time if i could afford to do it at a place poor people don't go to. i'm tired of looking at fucked-up raggedy shriveled "vegetables" and dusty green meat. i want to go where the produce makes you want to be a better person and start living your fucking life right.

standing in the middle of the butcher section we decided that, based on the fact that he had NO IDEA whether or not this woman he'd had dinner FOUR TIMES with ate meat or seafood or dairy, he would make one of the many vegetarian pasta recipes i had stored away in my tiny little brain. i was already irritated 1because i don't make enough money to have a car 2 i don't make enough money to live downtown3 i was in the grocery store at ass crack o'clock and i hadn't even brushed my teeth4 the coffee wasn't helping and 5 i was wearing shortened pants in a public place, then this fool started arguing with me about how to cook and what tastes good and what women like and i caught a GIANT killer attitude from the pit of hell and started slamming shit in the cart and here is my recipe for pasta siracusaniwhich will impress whatever cassie or amy or lucy you're dating enough to sleep with you because you actually chopped shit up and it's colorful and looks so pretty on the plate and you took the time to cook for her (and it even sounds cool and authentic) and you are the sweetest guy she's ever met and no one's ever made dinner for her before and you're welcome you ungrateful bastards.

note: this isn't really vegetarian, because it has anchovies in it. and i feel bad for poor little anchovies, as they and brussels sprouts really do get a bad fucking rap. everyone's automatic response is to say "i don't like anchovies," even if he or she has never had one. THEY ARE DELICIOUS, and YOU WILL LIKE THEM. even if you think you won't. give the poor little guys a chance. i eat them on crackers or toast or mixed with rice. so make sure your paramour doesn't have a fish allergy. don't ruin it by telling her they're in there, though, because that jerk will IMMEDIATELY turn her pretty little nose up and say,"i don't like those," and ruin my fucking dinner that i worked so hard to help you make.

more notes: this is so easy a fucking toddler could make it. therefore, you men should be able to do it without incident. and it takes half an hour. if that. it totally grosses me out that you might go get a copy of 30 second meals in an instant or whatever, so i will continue to post simple shit that will excite the panties off even the most skeptical, hard-hearted bitch. except me. to break through the fortress around MY corazon you'd have to slaughter an animal in the wild, expertly butcher it, and cook it to perfection. WHILE I WATCHED.

even more notes:please also clean your apartment, ESPECIALLY THE BATHROOM, hide your porn, put away your game controllers, light a candle, and change your goddamned sheets. BEFORE she comes over. and maybe if you could buy some fresh flowers that would help, too. and stock your bar. dudebro and i had a huge blowout about what sort of booze he should have on hand, and it involved much shouting and a temper tantrum (what a fucking baby), so i am hesitant to tell you what to get. you know what girls like to drink. and no, it's not MOLSEN. fucker.

so many fucking notes:i assume you all at LEAST have olive oil and garlic at home. if not, grow up already. this makes 4-6 servings for normal people with average appetites; 1 dude-sized serving plus 1 "i'm too shy to eat in front of you" katie or veronica or kimmie serving; or 2 lonely, hate-filled writer servings plus more to eat directly out of the pot in the middle of the night after you've forgotten to put it away.

1 put on a big pot of salted water for your pasta. heat 2 tbsp oil in a large, deep pan and fry 2 cloves of CRUSHED garlic for 30 seconds over low heat; don't burn the garlic, please. that will make the whole thing taste like BALLS.

2 add: bell pepper, zucchini, tomatoes, anchovies, olives, capers, and four ounces of water; cook uncovered for twenty minutes while stirring, during which you should cook the pasta for the bare minimum amount of time it takes to cook it. al dente is better. drain it and rinse cold before draining it again.

3 add basil to the sauce and stir well, season to taste (a little salt, a little pepper), then top the pasta that you've divided between two of your good plates while it's still hot. grate some cheese on it if she'll let you. and you should maybe have a couple bottles of wine and some good bread and if you need me to tell you what to put in a nice dinner salad you really should step your game up before you think about getting some ass.

bonus, just because i like you so much: most chicks won't eat dessert in front of you (not sam), especially if she has designs on backwards cowgirling your ass later (again, not sam). but i was inspired by all that gorgeous fruit, so dude and i bought some cartons of strawberries and raspberries and blueberries and shit. nicely cut up the strawberries and put them in a bowl with whatever else you bought (it really doesn't matter, just don't use grapes because I HATE THEM). buy some fresh mint, and put a few sprigs in the bowl. (classy, right? i know!) i would tell you to make your own whipped cream, but that takes too long and you probably don't have a stand mixer anyway. so get some cool whip, and put a dollop on top. NOW FOR THE PANTY-DROPPING FINALE: get a bar of semi-sweet baking chocolate (in the cake and frosting aisle, dummy) and gently grate a piece over the top. i have microplanes and other tools that are perfect for this, but you can use a raggedy box grater. just make sure you use the teeniest holes and just dust chocolate over the cream. if she doesn't giggle and jump right into your sleeping bag or onto your futon you better turn her over and check for a pulse and an on/off switch.

boner appetit!

ps, the next morning i got a text that said "I HIT THAT." see kids? romance is still alive and well. pfffft.

pps, i DID NOT cook this for him. i made him buy me brunch at southport grocery and went back to karen's and lapsed into a coma. it was, like, eight in the goddamned morning. sheesh.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

it's always more fun when the boys come out to play, isn't it? my dear friend two-tone, possesor of a gloriously dip-dyed multicolored penis that i have had the fortune of seeing yet the crushing disappointment of never having held is going to join us today and spread a little of his sunshine all over our vaginas.

i take that back. i'm not crushed. because i don't care. and not because he's not totally awesome, but because i'm over dudes and sex and talking and everything else. fuck all this bullshit. i am in a HORRIBLE mood today, which is not abnormal but this shit is worse than usual. i might jump off a building later.

so i hate men. let's just say it and stop bullshitting. i do. hate you all. as a gender. and nothing in particular has happened with one in a very long time, so this isn't some knee-jerk reaction to an acute bout of heartbreak or whatever. it's just sad fact. but i catch a lot of hell for all this nasty man-bashing, so i've decided to throw you boners a couple of bones in the form of some periodic handy tips and advice on how to be a better gentleman. because i know a bunch of smart, hot dudes who can't wait to give you other assholes advice on how to get your shit together yet want no part of an interpersonal relationship with yours truly. and that's fine. less work for me.

god, i hate my life. barf. so while i make plans to go home and sort through my pills to figure out which ones might kill me the fastest and the least painfully, two tone is going to substitute teach class this period. be good, stay in your seats, and SHUT THE FUCK UP. mommy will be back later. or never.

Since Sam is gracious enough to allow me to air some of this shit out with my anonymity (and thus my dignity) intact, I would like to begin our "helpful tips for men" series, if I may. I have promised many sexual favors (no he did not) in exchange for being allowed to be a guest contributor here, so eat this shit up, assholes. Okay, I would like to start with:

THE JOYS OF EATING PUSSY.
Yeah, I said it.
::cracks knuckles::
Okay, men, you are all aware that the planet revolves around the power of the almighty vagina. That North/South axis shit they tell you in fifth grade is a huge lie. So our lives are a neverending quest to get our dicks wet. An elaborate mating dance. A trade-off.

You listen to her ramble about the bitches she works with or the shoes she wants or whatever asinine, smile-and-nod inducing shit she wants to ramble about, and she lets you play sticky-sticky with her guts.

see?! this is why i don't waste a second of my time talking to a dude about anything that doesn't have to do his stomach or his penis. because HE TOTALLY DOESN'T GIVE A SHIT. so stop wasting your time. this is why i stay on you girls to cultivate and care for and cherish your relationships with WOMEN, because as much as you are convinced that he loves listening to all the boring shit you yammer at him this is concrete proof that he does NOT. his mind is on the xbox, the basketball game, the girl he's fucking on the side...anywhere other than that chick flick you're trying to get him to watch or that fight with your BFF you'd like him to decide who's right (you are, OF COURSE) or how he feels about that new dress you just got (he hates it because he thinks you look LARGE in it and the color is off but he will grunt some sort of noncommittal semi-approval just to get you out of his goddamned face).

they don't want to talk. that's why they're quiet most of the time. and please stop misinterpreting that silence as undivided attention. my favorite exes are the ones who didn't talk AT ALL, because i never had to do or say anything interesting because they weren't ever paying attention anyway. so i just chattered to myself all day, just like i do now with the cat. i don't talk to very many real live humans anymore, and i don't want to. i just pace back and forth around my apartment drinking diet cokes and muttering shit at helen.

man, this is a relief. because sometimes i convince myself that i'm crazy, that men are really gentle, well-meaning souls who just happen to be misunderstood. glad to know that I AM ALWAYS RIGHT. about EVERYTHING.

Wanna know a secret? The best way to gain access to her southern hemisphere is...wait for it...wait for it...

PARALYZE THAT BITCH SO SHE IS INCAPABLE OF FORMING THE WORDS "STOP, NO, OR DON'T (put your cock in me)." And hey, if she don't say no, it's not rape. KIDDING. Unless you're into that sort of thing.piglet.
If you follow your boy's advice, you will be impaling her in no time, homie. Now, I've known women for whom you could just blow on it and they would be levitating within seconds. (not sam.) Conversely, I've known women who made me feel like i was trying to decrypt a navajo naval algorithm. (SAM!) But, I am proud to say that I am UNDEFEATED. That's right, bitches. Undefeated. Me are the roughest, toughest, ras-clott pussy eater in the yoo-nited states, seen? Me give bitches multiples for fun, seen? WHO WANT TEST MEH? Heh. Sorry. Just watched Belly on DVD.

Bottom line: I LIKE TO EAT PUSSY.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh yes. First off, make that bitch wait. Don't just face plant yourself into it and fill out a change-of-address form. It don't work that way. I like to start at an ankle. Drag the TIP (just the TIP, don't go attacking that shit like a dog at a puddle of spilled ice cream; that shit will weird a bitch out) of your tounge SLOWLY up the inside of her leg. When you get to the fun, cream-filled part, make circles around it.

Don't actually lick the fun part yet. Make that bitch wait. Then make your way back down the inside of the other leg, to the opposite ankle from which you began. You can repeat this journey in reverse but be warned that if you do the coast-to-coast ankle sweep (patent pending, motherfuckers) TOO many times, she might punch you in the face, and blood maketh not for good lube, so be attentive. When you feel she is sufficiently begging for it, put your open mouth on the corner of her pelvis and use the TIP of your tongue to lick circles around her hipbones. I've had good feedback on this one.

Okay, so now you have warmed up the motor. Time to separate the men from the muthaphuckin boys, gents. Blow on it. Not like Superman trying to knock Lex Luthor off a cliff, mind you, just breathe heavy on it. Grab her by her inner thighs, yank her legs wide open with authority, and then get to work.

i am compelled to interject here because i disagree with this more than i can adequately express. please stop blowing on our soft meat, gentlemen. PLEASE. it just makes it cool off and stop working, which makes your job TEN TIMES MORE DIFFICULT. so don't do it. it's not a hot bowl of soup that needs to be cooled, it's a vagina.

Maxim magazine ran an article in 99 that summed it up best: pretend it's the last ice cream cone on earth. It's a sensitive area, dudes. Less is more. This is the part where all women are different, so be attentive. Some women like the middle finger about 3/4 of the way up and curled toward you. Some women like a finger or two in their butt while you are maxxing their shit. Most of them like when you actually penetrate them WITH your tounge.none of the above. tongue to the left of the clit, on the g, keep pressing there until i'm done. which will probably be in two or three years, because you are probably mentally retarded.The Clit Jump Manuever.

If you apply enough pressure to the clit with the first 1/3 of your tongue, and gently slide your tongue from side to side, and eventually the clit will jump from one side to the other. Simple physics. If you hear a "yip-yip-yip" that reminds you of a kicked Yorkie, congratulations. You have just successfully executed the Clit Jump Manuever. (Again, patent pending.) And the in-case-of-emergency-break-glass fallback is, if you can manage to multitask, you lazy fucks:

Do the above clit jumping manuever WHILE GENTLY SUCKING ON IT SIMULTANEOUSLY. I have assassinated more than one bitch who claimed she didn't like getting oral with the above technique.

If she has a handful of the hair on the back of your head and is arching her pelvis into you, chances are you're doin it right. If you get her to pop her tailbone a clear two inches off the bed, congrats on a job well done. But don't stop there.Do your damnedest to make that girl cum again and again until she literally bucks you off like a rodeo steed. Church.

And men, if you are gonna do it, DO IT RIGHT. (for reals, dude. do your fucking homework.) You know how much it SUCKS when a girl is blowing you and she does the whole "stop to tuck her hair behind her ear" thing or stops to tell you her jaw hurts? Kinda sucks, right? Because then she has to START ALL OVER AGAIN FROM SCRATCH. Well guess what. That goes both ways, homie. I don't care if you have a mouthful of her girl juice, YOU SWALLOW THAT SHIT LIKE A MAN AND KEEP GOING. I don't want any of you guys out there doing a bullshit job of going down on a woman and saying you learned it from me. Y'heard?

i just want to reiterate here that "breathing heavy on it" is the sexual equivalent to the "stop to tuck her hair behind her ear hurt jaw thing." okay. that is all.

Follow my advice and you will have a pleasantly paralyzed woman to play "hide the fun stick" with to your heart's content. Well, I hope this has been fun and informative, men. Now I send you out into the world to practice your newfound abilities with confidence. Go forth, padowans, and paralyze these bitches so hard their unborn grandchildren need a cigarette.

OH OH OH. I ALMOST FORGOT.

Ladies, PLEASE cut back on the cheeseburgers. A mature man doesn't mind the musky lady scent, lord knows I have found myself making duckface just to smell my top lip and grin after doing the deed to one of y'all, but seriously, cut back on the greasy food, plz plz plz kthnxbi. I once ate out a vegetarian girl and she tasted like straight strawberries. It was a delightful experience. But some of y'all need a bath and a nutritionist, f'reals.

i might be one of these bitches who needs a bath and a nutritionist. sigh. but cheeseburgers taste like heaven fried and smashed between two slices of sourdough, so i'm going to have to disagree. for serious. i just had a cheeseburger for lunch today. i've told you all before that my shit smells and is hairy and i am never changing anything about myself for a man ever again (let's pretend that the opportunity might present itself ever again), so if that's what it takes i guess i better get some more cats.

Until next time, my friends. I should mention that I am under exclusive contract to bitchesgottaeat, so if you want to get at me, you've gotta go through Sam.

Tune in next time, when we will discuss premature ejaculation, and a little something I like to call THE MARLON BRANDO METHOD.Until then, keep it 100 y'all.And I'm a ghost.

what does "keep it 100" mean? god, i am SO SQUARE. real talk.
okay love you see you next time bye.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

this is how you know someone loves your ass: when she is willing to put a horrific and abysmal picture of her drunken, shiny self at your birthday party at carnivale last year making the most awfulest, hideous face and throwing up the devil horns to the lords of ROCK in that shirt that she always wears yet always hates the minute she sees it in a picture on the GODDAMNED INTERNET because you look so happy and smiley and cute.

i'm pretty sure that you can't see my other hand because it is hiding a glass full of liquor underneath the table, because even when i am shitfaced i still somehow maintain the cognizance and good sense to try to hide my rampant alcoholism when there is a camera present. can't be photographed in front of a table full of half-empty cocktails. this whole facebook age is fucking my party game UP. there is a picture of me from my birthday last year doing a shot while holding two nearly empty beer bottles in my free hand. jesus. back in the olden days you could make a drunken ass out of your dirtbag self without worrying that the bitch you hated the most in high school will be up at the crack of dawn laughing at your stupid pictures and calling everybody you know so they can laugh, too. then when you finally drag yourself awake fourteen hours later at the crack of DRUNK and vomit up all the misery and regret before showering off the shame and self-hatred and slump down at the computer you want to KILL YOURSELF because that hot dude you used to like left a mean comment on a photo of you ASLEEP at a fucking DISCO.

i mean, not that i would know anything about that. moving on.

i know i spend a lot of time writing about how much i hate everything and how everyone should die, and for the most part that is 100% the truth. but right now i'm going to bottle up all that hate in the hopes that it kills me sooner rather than later and put my knives away and be nice for a fucking change.

this is my best friend in the entire world and the love of my fucking life, and today is her goddamned birthday. i'm too poor to throw this bitch a parade, so instead sarah gets a blog post devoted to her awesome amazingness. (and a hundred marriage proposals to follow, i'm sure. you bastards.) she is the most smart, the most in tune, the most honest, the most loyal, the most hilarious. and the least snotty, the least rude, the least judgmental. in other words, the fucking BEST.

this is the only person for whom i will stand outside for any length of time, be it boiling beneath the sun at pride last summer (my skin almost cracked in half) or sitting for two hours in the rain at ravinia while bloated out of my mind on steroids because i was so fucking sick at the time. i am loathe to be photographed anywhere, at any time, by anyone, ESPECIALLY next to this gorgeous bitch who makes me look like shrek or some shit whenever i stand next to her, but i love this picture because it is indicative of so much about our friendship. i was at death's doorstep (note that my face is twice its usual bigness because i had literally JUST WALKED OUT of the hospital and was on 80mg of pred at the time; it took more courage than i'm equipped with to post this horrifying shit) yet i still got on the metra and dragged my sorry ass out to the lawn because she loves john legend so much. we just fucking love each other, and there really is no better feeling than that.

we watch tv "together," (she in her place, i in mine, televisions tuned to the same station), we finish each other's sentences, like all the same shit, HATE ALL THE SAME PEOPLE, sleep in the same bed, talk shit about dudes, terrorize kittens, and every other fucking thing you can imagine. i met her six or seven years ago when she came to work with us at bramer, and it was love at first bite. i am the silliest piece of shit that ever lived, and from day one it was giggles and jokes and trickery and it hasn't stopped since.

i changed my name in her phone to "fuck you" while she was in the bathroom one day, then spent the entire afternoon blowing her shit up. in turn, she wrote "I SUCK DICK" in giant letters on my fresh values (pffft) card after stealing my wallet then put it back in my bag, and the next time i was at dominicks and the young dude ringing up my groceries asked if i wanted to save a few bucks i handed it to him and he looked at me all funny and then called his manager. bwahahahasshole! i had no fucking idea. i almost got escorted out of the store! that shit was genius.

we are an unlikely duo, i know. i fucking have eyes. sheesh. she is made of sunshine and kisses and i'm made of the black stuff at the bottom of a coffee pot mixed with stomach acid and a little bit of dog poo. but she's my fucking soulmate, man. if you believe in that sort of silly thing. no one else on earth GETS me the way sarah does. she has an innate understanding of everything i am and everything i feel and i am lucky to have found her, even if it means that every single time we go out i sit in the corner with a handful of beers while EVERY DUDE IN THE BAR comes up to holler at her. jerks.

and aside from all that she means to me, this bitch is DOPE. she breeds belgian malinois with whom she does french ring (that shit is TERRIFYING, look at that bitch's teeth!), she has a sociology degree, she's in nursing school, she has ridiculously excellent hair, she eats like a fucking linebacker and has the metabolism of a hummingbird, and her best friend is this stupid asshole who writes this dumb blog you might want to lower yourself to read one of these days. meh. don't bother. it's a waste of time.

happy birthday, baby. i love you more than anything that's not a taco.

Friday, May 21, 2010

this is what i read at funny ha-ha. because i am a sap and i love you i am posting it. and i got a bunch of emails and shit from salty bitches who don't live in chicago bitching about how it's not fair because they'd come see me if i lived in houston or phoenix or new york or wherever and why should they be punished because my chicaghoes are wack? and that is 100% correct. plus, i'm fucking lazy.

dude, i think i have entirely too much visible workplace cleavage today. in case you were wondering. this shit is best read aloud, by me, and i'll read it to anyone who wants me to. otherwise i'm sure it'll sound pretty good coming from your mouth, too. it's like "casey at the bat." if "casey at the bat" was about getting my smelly vagina waxed. happy weekend! xo

Thursday, May 20, 2010

he's really the most perfect dude. seriously. and i'm not even into skinny, waifish men. because there really is no quicker way to feel like a gigantic walking sack of sweet potatoes (i'll wait quietly over here while you figure out why that is such a ridiculously awesome and accurate visual) than to rub on some delectable bean pole and have his sharp, pointy bits stabbing you all up in your soft meat.

i've done it. more than a few times. and always with the beaniest of poles. not salad-eating anorexics, mind you, and none of these emaciated hipsters in nut-hugging girl jeans that are always clogging up belmont. just naturally thin dudes the circumference of a ball-point pen. but they have to be TALL, because i can't deal with a dude who could fucking hide behind me. i'm laughing while writing that, because that shit is hilarious, but i am 100% FOR REAL. skinny and tall works. skinny and small DON'T. i mean, in life it totally works, because you can fold your tiny ass up and hide in cupboards when the gestapo come calling or slide through fences and crawl through dog doors, all of which i'm sure comes in very handy. but the thought of sleeping next to a malnourished little piece of undercooked meat doesn't light any fires over here. not because it's gross, it sort of totally is, but because i don't want to carry my manfriend around in a snugli.

we have been over this before, but i want to get to the bottom of all the jack sprats out here trying to cozy up on some curvy jibs. BACK UP THE FUCKING TRUCK. speaking of this craziness, i totally fucking forgot to write about how i saw goddamned gym dude at whole foods a couple weeks ago. holy mother of god, how on EARTH could i forget something so monumental?! maybe because it wasn't such a big deal. whatever. anyway. i am incredibly particular about my soy, rice, and almond milks (i DO make things other than tacos and toast, silly) and i am really fond of a few brands i can only find at WF. i can't have my milk feeling too thick or looking too brown; it makes me want to vomit, and i do enough of that as it is. also, i buy tons of probiotics and lysine and raspberry lime poland spring sparkling water. i always have a very specific, targeted list when i go in there because everything is so fucking expensive and ten minutes of aimless wandering can land two hundred dollars' worth of shit in my cart. easy.

i typically race through with my list (at the speed of arthritis) and leave before i spend my rent money. and i try not to make eye contact with anyone because i know everyone and bitches always stop me while i'm shopping to talk to me about NOTHING. i was putting three gigantic bottles of flax seed oil in my cart next to the kefir and coconut oil and chewable acidophilus when i felt a presence behind me. so i just moved, because i am always very conscious of blocking a person's access to something i am JUST STANDING in front of (why isn't everyone like me, hmm?) and hate to waste anyone's time. i grabbed one more bottle (i go through a lot of that stuff) and was walking away when he put his hand on my arm.

i whipped around (again, i really don't move that fucking fast) to confront my assailant (touching = assault, never forget that) and deflated as soon as i realized who it was. even when dudes are so super fucking shitty to me, if enough time passes i can smile and be nice when i inevitably run into them again. i might even be excited and cordially ask "hey, how have you been?" and actually listen to the answer. and gym dude never did anything other than fill my arteries with gooey, calorie-laden LOVE. but i was uncomfortable standing there, IN A GIANT MECCA DEVOTED TO FOOD, with a dude who'd jerked off using a slice of pizza in my presence.

he still looked INCREDIBLE, but i was so grossed out you wouldn't even believe. barf. and he was like, "are you seeing anyone?" in that deep, velvety voice (swoon) and it almost took my last breath to admit that i indeed am not and watch the lusty satisfaction spread across his face like syrup oozing across a pancake. if you know me you know that while i am a master of hiding shit and deception, i am a terrible to-your-face LIAR. he would've totally been able to tell. "i'm glad to hear that. i am going to call you."groan. it's never "the one that got away" (although i really don't have one of those but for the purposes of this story we'll pretend that i do) who wants to call you. it's the dude who licked bacon grease out of your butthole or whatever who can't wait two minutes before texting you "do you still like crab? it's on sale!" from the other side of the motherfucking store. and OF COURSE i still like crab. what an insane question. who the fuck doesn't like delicious crabs? IDIOT.

i double-timed it (at a snail's pace) to finish my shopping, and i ran into him twice more (that's what i get for standing in the pasta aisle for five minutes when i should have been picking out cans of red salmon like my list told me to) before finally almost running him over with my cart because i was racing to get the last two bunches of calla lilies before some other bitch with impeccable taste snatched them out from under me. he walked with me to the checkout (while checking ME out, zing) and i unloaded all my shit and then looked in his cart, which was full of health food and fruit and fresh vegetables and energy bars and whatever else you people who give a fuck about your appearance eat while the rest of us are sucking down delicious ribs and carrot cake.

"what is all that?" he asked, nodding at my bottles and bottles and bottles of weird hippie shit that sick people eat in the vain hopes of feeling better. "are you on some crazy diet?"

i rolled my eyes and told him that i have a bowel disease and that filling my body with vitamins, oils, and delicious bacteria is supposed to make me feel fucking better. i wasn't expecting this to happen, but his eyes got all wide and tear-filled (wtf with the melodrama? YAWN) and he asked if it was fatal. my response EVERY SINGLE TIME someone asks me is "god, i hope so," and when i said it to gym dude he almost started hyperventilating. which was funny to me. hilarious, even. i mean, this is a dude who masturbated into my kitchen sink while i ate lemon cake frosting with my fingers. this unexpected emotion made me laugh, probably because i am evil and come from hell.

"could i have had something to do with it?" now i want you to picture this. 1 packed grocery line 2 original whole foods in evanston 3 him trying to discreetly lean across cart between us 4 "discreet" imfuckingpossible when you are 6'5'' and made of bulging muscles 5 people staring anyway 6 samantha trying to put on serious face when she really wants to die laughing.

but you bitches are going to be so proud, because i said, with a STRAIGHT FACE, "yes." now you know and i know that this is some congenital biological wackness that satan handed me right before i slid out of my mom's ass that lay dormant for twenty-five years before showing its ugly face and ruining my fucking life, but this idiot doesn't! i live to fuck with people. really, i totally do. i was fucking with rachel a couple days ago so badly that i almost gave her ass an ulcer. seriously, she sent me seventeen texts and forty-nine emails and called a hundred and fifty times to make sure i wasn't mad at her. and i just kept acting mad until it wasn't funny to me anymore. what a JERK.

so i had absolutely no problem letting this dude think that a couple months of blueberry pie and chicken wings caused this bastard piece of shit disease that has overtaken my digestive tract. he looked horror-stricken (ha ha) and tried to hug me (ha ha ha) and felt SO BAD that he bought all of my expensive groceries (getting shit for free from a bogus dude is no laughing matter). it just occurred to me that some of you might have no idea what the fuck i'm talking about, and if you find yourself scratching your head in confusion PLEASE do yourselves a favor and go through my old shit and read a piece called "fat fuck." even if you've read it, you should read it again. it is filthy and horrible and disgusting and brilliant in a way i can't do justice to here. go on, now. i'll wait for you.

gym dude has called a couple times and emailed me a couple more, but i've adopted this new "no hustling backward" policy that we'll talk about later when i don't want to write about my ultra-pale paramour. so in other words, FUCK THAT DUDE. because he makes me sick. tee hee.fuck jay leno. conan is seriously one of the funniest dudes on television, and what happened to him was so unfair i can't even stand it. he's self-effacing and silly and smart and he's so fucking sharp. seriously, his comedic reflexes are ridiculous. if conan talked about vaginas and how much he hates retarded menfolk i could totally write his material for him. and that's a big deal because i'm still arrogant enough that when people ask me to write shit for them to perform i turn my fucking nose up. for reals. stop asking me to help you with your stand-up DUDE WHO KEEPS ASKING ME TO WRITE YOUR STAND-UP. i may look a little bit like seth rogen, but this isn't "funny people." and i might have considered it if 1 you had offered to pay me 2 you had offered to pay me 3 you had offered to pay me 4 you had offered to pay me 5 you had offered to fuck me.

and i would have politely declined, but it would have at the very least proven that you aren't entirely a bag of shit. "help me fine tune my stage act" is how this asshole put it. for a stranger. FOR FREE. and a male stranger at that! you know i'll help you women do anything short of assassinations and child trafficking, but I WILL NEVER HELP A MAN DO A GODDAMNED THING. i say that all the time. and i mean it. especially not for free. ugh. fucking gross.

anyway, conan was singing and dancing and playing his guitar and telling jokes and singing and masturbating bear and dancing and andy richter and guitar playing and triumph and singing and videos and john c. reilly and dancing and walker texas ranger and reggie watts and lights and brian urlacher and la bamba and deon cole and dancing and yelling and singing and AWESOME. i feel terrible that you couldn't have come with us. it was incredible. the opening act dude sort of sucked my balls a whole lot, but rachel was GOING CRAZY laughing at him. for cereal. i had to give her, like, TEN side-eyes. i was all, "is this really your shit?" and she was laughing so hard she couldn't answer. if i hadn't laughed at the song he sang about sandwiches and when he kept saying "make a fuck shit stack" i would really be reconsidering my friendship with her right now.

plus, WE GOT TO TOUCH CONAN. he came up right where we were sitting, and i touched him. so did ginger. i can now die in peace.

after the show we went to the astonishingly beautiful wit hotel (you already know how i feel about hotels) and had a super-late fancy dinner at state and lake, the bar inside. this is only worth mentioning because a few weeks ago ginger and draper got into a heated internet debate about the proper way to eat tasty foods (draper and i voted NEAT, while ginger's vote was MESSY) and she swore on a stack of bibles that she would NEVER quarter and eat a cheeseburger, which is the method of choice both for me and for that smoldering piece of top sirloin steak. when the waiter placed that gigantic slab of medium-rare beef in front of her, i watched with HUGE bug eyes as she almost picked up her knife to cut it into more manageable pieces. but she knew i would never shut up about it, so she pretended she wasn't going to and double-fisted it.

and even though i totally know i'm right and that not having grease run down my hand brace as i tried to open my mouth and shove a sandwich the size of a football inside is the most perfect way to eat, it was incredibly sexy watching her do it. meow.

ps, i'm not late on this, just lazy. if you haven't, PLEASE get bon iver's "for emma, forever ago." i bought it when it first came out, listened to it INCESSANTLY, then put it on my musical back burner. but i'm listening to it again, right now as a matter of fact, and it is SO GOOD i might die.

pps, i just this very second bought tickets to see the dum dum girls, beach house, and vampire weekend in september at the aragon. i have a couple VALID and TOTALLY LEGIT presale codes, because i am the unofficial ruler of the universe. i want you to come to this show with us, because it is going to be SO GOOD that we all might die. let me know if you wanna.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

new evidence that i am getting old as fuck: the vampire and i went to see iron man 2 yesterday afternoon, and i spent the entirety of the film jumping and cringeing because it was just so goddamned LOUD.

a couple of times i was tempted to put my fingers in my ears. and i HATE people who do that. doesn't it make you want to kick a bitch? man up and listen to me, you pussy. putting your fingers in your ears just makes you look like a four-year-old. a STUPID four-year-old. barf.

years and years ago anna and i went to see U-571 in the theater, and there were signs posted warning moviegoers that the film was super loud and full of explosions. that shit was EXCRUCIATING. some people left because they couldn't take it. but you know i'm a G, so i toughed it out. but yesterday my ancient, creaky ass almost threw in the towel. my fucking ears hurt.

before the movie we had lunch (what do you call the meal that occurs at three-thirty on a tuesday when you haven't eaten anything other than tylenol and steroids and aren't going to eat anything else? brunner?) at feed, which i am going to have to start calling my new favorite place because i have been there twice since sunday and have had two totally different yet totally delicious meals.

you dudes should go there. and i will go with you if you want. it's organic southern comfort food made by white rockabilly hipsters. the place is really homey and sweet, covered in pictures and chicken figurines. there's a jukebox with REALLY GOOD MUSIC ("52 girls" by the B52s came on and i SERIOUSLY almost lost my shit) and it's super fucking cheap. really. you'll have money left over for cocktails later. ginge and gorge and i went on sunday for brunch, and the pulled pork sweet potato hash was amazing. which was good because i was in a disconsolate, incredibly shitty mood on sunday. and we all know what scrumptious food does for your frown. it turns it upside down, just in case you didn't know. next time your ass is sad go get yourself a cookie and see how glad it makes you.

there are only two downsides: it's at chicago and california which, for a FAR northside girl like myself, is an AWFUL LONG WAY to go for some fried okra and corn pudding and scrambled eggs. and it's next door to the continental. i know some of you dudes LOVE that place (rachel? amanda?) but i think it's just a grody little pick-up bar that is too far from civilization for my tastes 1 and never has any dudes inside that i would take home 2. that's not really a downside, i guess. just some misplaced bitching. which i am FULL OF. anyway, go eat at feed. and make sure you take cash. those bitches are NOT fucking around with any debit cards or whatever.

so vampire and i went to one of those fancy as shit newfangled theaters, the ICON on roosevelt. (i feel like a name like that warrants capitalization.) i felt like a hillbilly because i didn't know shit about choosing your seat before you even walk into the theater (what?!) or paying SIXTEEN DOLLARS to watch a movie from the cozy confines of a reclining chair with a beer in one hand and gourmet movie snacks in the other. i felt like such an asshole when the ticket dude was like, "where would you two like to sit?" and i just stood there staring at him and thinking, "why the fuck does HE need to know?" finally, seriously it was a fucking ETERNITY, that bloodsucker swooped in and explained to me that we had to choose before we got the tickets. thanks for sparing me from looking like a dick for five minutes. jesus.

movies are too goddamned expensive as it is. especially when you don't know whether or not that shit is BALLS. a nine-dollar wackfest hurts my feelings enough as it is, i can't IMAGINE the level of pissed i'd ascend to after spending almost twice that on a sucky piece of celluloid garbage. that movie better wipe my ass and drive me home afterward. pshaw. good thing the vampire paid. because we would have been watching a free dvd at casa sam if it were up to me. i'm just playing. i love fancy shit. but i was taken aback a touch.

one of the managers gave us a tour, during which i decided that i would like to fucking live there. it's SO NICE. and, more importantly, it comes equipped with a FULL BAR. i like drinking, you see. but alcohol would be detrimental to my moviegoing experience, i think. i'm a nine-dollar nap kind of girl. ie, I SLEEP THROUGH 90% OF THE MOVIES I GO TO. maybe even 95%. unless i'm with a hot dude i'm afraid to have exasperatedly poking me in the ribs for two hours because my snoring and drooling is embarrassing the shit out of him. for serious. i sleep through everything. EVERYTHING. even shit i'm dyyyyying to see. ask laura. or SARAH. she usually turns to me and says "goodnight, sammy" and pats me on the head as soon as the previews are over.

those i am wide awake for. ALWAYS. i love previews more than i love the feature-length film they precede. i live for them, because they are PERFECT. if you don't believe me, ask any of my regular movie bitches how fucking early we have to get to the theater. seriously. forty-five minutes prior. SERIOUSLY. i also like to make sure i get a seat where i like. oh, you didn't think i wasn't difficult about going to the movies, did you? silly rabbits! i'm difficult when it comes to EVERYTHING. that's why i have to be so funny and cute. because i will eventually annoy the shit out of you with something dumb. like my need to sit at the very top row in the very last seat and for you to leave me the hell alone when i inevitably lapse into a coma or else run the risk of my biting you in the face. i apologize in advance. (no, i don't. don't touch me.)

i might be in love with tony stark. since i've decided to do away with all contact from actual human male-type creatures i'm setting my sights on fictional representations of my perfect man instead. smart, handsome, charismatic, wickedly funny, and a sharp fucking dresser. you bitches know that i live for a man in a well-appointed suit, and that goddamned movie was full of them! between tony's fly ass and justin hammer's ridiculously hot tailored suitedness and that delicious military habiliment i couldn't stop swooning.

you dudes in your fucking flip flops and sweat pants need to take a fucking memo. put some pants with a goddamned crease in them on. and iron your motherfucking shirt. plus, your clothes need to fit. they really do look better when you aren't drowning in them. AND if they haven't been purchased from a sporting goods store. i was out at dinner recently and was amazed by the number of dudes OUT IN PUBLIC wearing clothes no man of mine would be caught dead in to wash the fucking LAUNDRY. because they might be assholes, but every single samfriend is a casket sharp dresser.

maybe i like dudes like that because my apparel of choice is what i like to call "understated chic?" ha. and maybe they like me because they AUTOMATICALLY look better than i do when we go out? because i don't fucking care. AT ALL. i'll get out of the mirror so you can get yourself all jazzed up. no problemo. i've had a number of dudes so stylish my friends were immediately like, "he's a homo, right?" upon making their acquaintance. shit, the first thing the vampire did yesterday was pull an akira bag from his trunk and show off his new fancy shoes. he's a fucking fashionista.

i don't give a shit about shoes. and i hate shopping for clothes. if i had unlimited money and a different body and wasn't forced to try shit on in a funhouse mirror (wtf with dressing rooms, right?!) i might get more revved up about clothes, but until then? fuck 'em. i'm not so surly and callous that i can't appreciate them, though. especially when draped over somebody smoking hot. i can pull it together when i wanna, but i cannot be relied upon to do that shit with any regularity. especially if it involves any sort of torturous undergarment or back-breaking high heel. eff that ess.

i really would much rather pull my weight in any relationship by being the smarter and funnier one. you wear the imported wool/cashmere blend notch lapel, two button, chest pocket, front flap pockets, side vents, fully lined suit, and i'll make the jokes.

so tony is like my dream man. he could sit in his lab all day playing with robots and snorting palladium while i drive all those amazing cars and make the robots cook me fabulous dinners. i'm fucking bossy, so a robot would be right up my alley. except i don't want one that can talk back. just do what the fuck i say, sambot. no back talk. and i'll bet tony's goddamned tv works properly. he wouldn't have to be on the internet soliciting dudes to fix the shit. (SERIOUSLY. i know dozens of you motherfuckers are reading this shit. RIGHT NOW. why has no one come over to hook up my tv? i'm two seconds away from placing an ad on craigslist. and do you really want my subsequent murder on your collective conscience? do you?! i'm old and disabled, i'll never get away! can you live with that? oh no? well get over to my fucking house then.) and i'd throw lavish parties every night and let you kids sleep over and touch your privates after you fall asleep trashed on jesus juice. it would be awesome.

and rdj's ass is motherfucking FINE. insanely so. holy mother of god that dude is gorgeous. and that whole strung out ex-junkie thing is fucking hot, too. it totally works for me. i don't have a mommy complex, but i'd volunteer to take the place of heroin in that dude's life. get hooked on ME, robert! i'm non habit-forming, and i don't even cost that fucking much. hell, i'd move in with him for a six pack of tecate and a bag of ground beef tacos. in real life i'd kick a crackhead down a flight of stairs with zero hesitation, but robert i would coddle and stroke like a newborn bunny. for cereal. i'd bottle feed him and stay up watching him all night to make sure he didn't have a withdrawal seizure, then i'd cuddle under a blanket with him until his teeth stopped chattering and he admitted he'd sold my vcr for an eight ball of cocaine.

so the movie was fine. though too loud and way too much gwyneth. barf. scarlett johansson and samuel l. are a definite yes. don cheadle still looks like a roach hybrid, and i would fuck justin hammer with the lights on. DON'T TRIP. especially if he kept on his glasses. god, when he was in that creamy yellow suit?! bitch, please. outrageously fly. but my pantymilk still curdles for robert.

1"how is that math degree coming?" danny asked me that when i saw him at seven o'clock yesterday morning at the loyola starbucks. i was in sunglasses and pajamas and flip flops. ie, looking like a bag of flaming shit. "i still have all of those trig books if you want them," he said, and then he watched me pay for my mocha and sunday new york times with money i'd taped together and laundry quarters. "i can come by later with them if you want."

at that exact moment i realized that i fucking forgot to sign up for school for the summer semester. shows how much i care about my education, no? i'm not even sure how i forgot, but i fucking did. maybe i forgot because i hate school and i'm miserable and not paying tuition leaves more money for beer and nail polish. who the fuck knows. and when he said it i was just like "holy fucking shit" as the realization that writing the note posted on my bathroom mirror that reads SIGN UP FOR SUMMER SCHOOL was merely an exercise in futility. god, i really like not going to school. i just can't wrap my brain around working a twelve hour day and going home to do anything other than watch wrestling in bed with a bottle of red wine. to hell with homework.

and i think i still might be technically able to register, but my tuition money paid for some tattoos and a new tv this weekend. so september it is. maybe.

2 i got a new television saturday, and i fucking hate it. mostly because i think some of the parts i need to properly set it up weren't included in the box. specifically the COCK and BALLS. did you know you dudes can't buy regular tvs anymore? i mean, old school cathode ray tube television sets? that is the thing about technology that is fucking terrifying to a luddite like myself, that one day shit is just OBSOLETE and fuck you if you weren't ahead of the curve.

so travis and i went to target and i searched in vain for a sturdy, dependable, operational cube amongst the shelves stocked with sleek black modern rectangles. to no avail. so i bought the smallest (19") and cheapest ($200) flatscreen i could find that was an actual name brand that sounded familiar to me. because i don't give a fuck about electronics. i just want to watch some goddamned tv. masturbating to my imagination is boring and produces unreliable results. trust me. i tried.

it took me thirty fucking minutes to get the base screwed on the fucking thing, twenty-nine of which were spent trying to use a regular screwdriver into slots meant for a philips head. in my defense, it was one in the morning yesterday and i was balls tired. i figured out how to connect the directv, which uses those multi-colored coaxial cables. (is that what they're called for reals?) but so does the dvd player. which i don't even want to goddamn use, as everything i watched was in a tiny rectangle 2/3 the size of the screen.

so do i have to switch them every time? and how do i get the directv remote to work the new tv? it worked the OLD one. am i going to have to sit with three different remotes at all times? one for the channel, one for the volume, and one for the dvd? which i have to get up and swap cords for anyway? do i need a new hd directv box? and an hd dvd player? if not, how do i get what i HAVE to work right? why is the picture so fucking small? is there a way to get it to fill the whole screen? without my having to read any manuals or research whatsoever? how much more fucking money do i have to spend?

someone needs to please get his penis over to my apartment and set all this shit up so i can watch my movies and shows without wanting to stab somebody in the face. i could cook you something. or tug your balls. or anything else i can do while watching gossip girl. call me please and thank you.

3i wasn't going to get tattooed. for reals. i decided that i wasn't ready for kalonji's neck piece, so i wasn't going to get anything at all. but travis and his cool aunt walked into the tattoo shop and i breathed in the smell of fear and searing human flesh and was like, GIMME. travis, who is eight feet tall and two hundred and fifty pounds and plays center on his college basketball team, got this giant business tattoed on the inside of his bicep (totally hot) while a dude laid on top of me for five minutes and added to my collection of angry and aggressive body art.

my favorite quotations are always fucked-up and horrifying, you know? just the coldest shit you could ever say to a person. and THERE WILL BE BLOOD is chock-full of some of the coldest. my very favorite is "i want no one else to succeed," which is now inked on my chest FOREVER. i mean that shit, too. i would rather see you die than become victorious, particularly if that victory surpasses my own accomplishments. and now i don't even have to tell you. you can read it for yourself.

4 i am so averse to doing the laundry that i went to american apparel and old navy and got gorgeous shirts so that laundry is no longer an issue this week. i have 700 pairs of underpants (rachel loathes the word "panties," and has now somehow transferred her crazy to me) and some clean socks and jeans, so i don't have to wash anything for another week. samantha 1, dirty pile of stinking, rapidly-mildewing laundry 0.

5 conan is TONIGHT, and i'm so excited i can't even stand it. you should be inconsolably jealous.

6 my hot pilates instructor came up to me at the end of the last class. it was taking me a good half hour to roll up my mat, because i was CONVINCED i had ripped apart something in my back doing the wall roll down and could barely move my fingers and arm because of this peripheral arthritis. also, we do that shit barefoot, and i have to take my time so i don't slip and crack my face open because my giant, smelly feet are sweaty and disgusting. a delicate flower? why yes, i am, thank you.

he said, "your form during the side plank is beautiful. you look like you're getting the hang of things!" i paused, looked at him for a second to try to gauge whether or not he was joking, wiped the sweat and snot and grease and blood off my face, opened my mouth, and "ahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha" breath "ahahahahahahahahahahaha" breath "ahahahahahahahahahaha" breath "ahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!" came out. man, fuck that dude! that class is killing me and my joints one pelvic curl at a time, and i seriously doubt my form is "beautiful."

i still stand in the back, i still wear all black, i still skip the exercises that look too difficult without even trying, and i still sometimes go out for beers after class with david. but i still go, because i still want to be able to kama sutra some shit when i've decided my casual sex hiatus is over. (no, i do that shit to help this deadly arthritis. but kama sutra sounds better than arthritis. so pretend that's it for real.)

7 speaking of, this medicine isn't working and my joints are out of control. literally. i cannot control them. if you read this shit for real and on the regular then you already know that people with bowel disorders and diseases often get secondary arthritis (the crippling kind) as a party favor. just for showing up to the poo party. i'm up to fourteen capsules and pills a day. it's almost time to try something else. like getting hit by a bus.

so my left hand and forearm are back in the hideous brace i stopped wearing OVER A YEAR AGO because i decided to fuck this crohn's in the asshole. well guess who won that fight? not sam. so i'm back in this awful flesh-colored fabric and metal contraption. typing in it is difficult, so since i am going to be forced to wear it every day for the rest of my life, i am shutting this blog down. it's been real. laters.

oh, i'm fucking kidding. i will write this slutty piece of trash until my goddamned arm FALLS OFF. god, i wish this shit wasn't BEIGE. can someone please find or make me a stylish left hand metal splint wrist brace that has straps and comes to the middle of my forearm please? or bedazzle the one i already have? you hoes know i'm not crafty. it already took every fiber of my being not to smash that tv into a thousand motherfucking pieces. i'd HATE to see the shambles this brace would end up in. and, unfortunately, i need it. so all you scientists and seamstresses and scrapbook queens need to come up with some hot shit for my arm and hand. and thank the lord it's not my jerking hand. for cereal. there would be tears.

8 i am obsessed with arm and hammer clean shower in mountain rain. i already told you that cleaning the bathroom is my religion. add to that an unquenchable thirst for purchasing shit i don't need, and you've got yourself a powder keg of product testing awesomeness. i use natural bar soaps from lush, and while they are fabulous and incredible and amazing, they soap scum my shit up like you wouldn't believe. and my useless arm and i don't have elbow grease kind of time. this shower spray has changed my life. it will change yours.

9 thanks to amanda i am also now obsessed with the phrase "real talk." no one would say that shit unless they lie all the time. i mean, why would you need to otherwise? can't i just assume that everything you say is true? why qualify it unless you're fake talking me the rest of the time? is what you say only true when followed by the words real talk? why is popular culture so totally baffling to me all of the goddamned time?!

10 i hate this weather because it is IMPOSSIBLE for me to dress for. most weather is difficult for me, because i am ornery and I HATE EVERYTHING. the summer is particularly awful, as i do not believe in shortened pants. of any variety. on any person. they just don't look right. yes, even on YOU. you should really be wearing pants. and staying indoors. with me. where we can hide from cancer and dudes who think that 1 it is appropriate and 2 they are fit enough to be outdoors in a goddamned tank top. come on, gentlemen. i'm going to need you to put on a shirt. with sleeves. i don't have my bush out, so why the fuck should i have to stare at your smelly, glistening armpit hair in the grocery store? or jump out of the way when one of your balls of deodorant leaps out at me because you keep flailing your fucking arms around? stop that shit. and i'm tired of seeing twelve-year-old pussy lips in what these girls are calling "shorts" nowadays. fuck you if you think i'm old. that shit is disgusting. and DANGEROUS. because if i'm looking, that pervert whose mugshot i'm about to see on the today show in a week is DEFINITELY LOOKING. put that shit away. you want to show it off and don't even know how to use it yet.

Friday, May 14, 2010

1 i lost the bet. because laziness trumps everything, and that hair was starting to cut into the time i set aside for eating cereal and using my vibrator and daydreaming while staring at the wall. it looks amazing and wonderful and sexy and chic, plus you can see my whole adorable face. win.

2 the dude who cuts my goddamned hair is a monolith of chocolate sex appeal, and he has a super-deep voice and talks very softly and intimately and caresses my face (and by that i mean "tilts it so he can line up my kitchen"). every time i get a haircut after growing this raggedy shit out i see his face and think, "what the fuck was i fucking DOING?" but he has seven goddamned children, so the hair on my head is all he'll ever get to touch. i mean, come on. i'm surprised i don't get pregnant just from sitting in his goddamned chair.

3 i talk a lot of shit about being horrible and mean, but after 137 beers and shots i just can't stop fucking smiling. actually, i kind of smile all the fucking time. and jenny looks like the bottle of jameson she just drank. smooth and sexy and brown. ginger took this while we were waiting for a table at big star, and you can see geno and andy discussing rocket science or whatever in the background. i hope you're noticing that TACOS are at the top of that menu.

4 my favorite things to wear are: dark flared jeans that are tight in the ass, black crocs capri flip clops (fuck you), black american apparel deep v summer shirts, killer jewelry, blush, and SO MANY SCARVES. i love scarves. and i spend so much money on them. the one in this picture was eighty-five bucks a few years ago. it's as big as a goddamned comforter. and i heart it so much.

5 i just made this happy weekend mix for you because i love you so much and i want you to have good jams:"universe, i love you" by parralox."sentimental x's" by broken social scene."never ending romance disaster" by anoraak."look me in the eye, sister" by groove armada. (the urchins remix!)"can you kiss me first" by college."promiscuity" by antigone."angry" by the bug."bleeding words" by elegant machinery."we are technology" by technologic."what's mine is yours" by sleater-kinney."step back" by northern kind."don't be funny" by dragonette."how does is feel?" by marsheaux."hot girlz in love" by fm attack."i can't tell you why" by chromeo."pressure boom" by ricky t.

you know the deal. download these bitches. play them loud. dance around your place. pretend you are awesome. repeat.

6 i'm buying another tattoo for travis this weekend i think, and that always makes me antsy to get another one. kalonji, who drew two of my arm pieces, drew this gigantic neck piece for me a couple weeks ago, but if i get it that pretty much guarantees that i have to stay at my current job FOREVER, because this dude doesn't care about that shit. or publish a million bestsellers or hit the fucking lottery. it would cover the entire side of my neck, curl up behind and over my ear, wrap around a little bit onto my throat, and crawl up the back of my scalp. for reals. like, INTO my hair. it's MONSTROUS. and gorgeous. it will cost just shy of seven million dollars, but it is so crazy and beautiful that i'm considering it.

7 my favorite thing to read on the toilet is the reader. and my favorite thing to read in the reader are the last few pages, where they list all of the personal ads. i always check the "missed connections" with the secret hope that some hot piece of shit i locked eyes with two weeks ago on the brown line at 10:30 at night who couldn't muster up the onions to talk to me in person had the wherewithall to go home and write an ad and email it to the paper. i'm stupid. and a romantic at heart. i do always wonder as i sit there skimming the posts for "curvy black comedy genius with amazing glasses and the most amazingest scarf i have ever seen in my life staring for twenty minutes at cans of corn in the dominicks at clark and howard," how do generic-looking bitches ever get found? i'm black and bald and all tatted up and i have silly glasses and a fat ass. i would know it was me at first glance. what are you "cute, petite blondes" and "average brunettes with nice smiles" supposed to do? every time i see that nondescript shit i'm like, "come on, man! did you not see ANYTHING notable?!" i know 6,982 average brunettes who ride the bus or shop at trader joes or whatever the fuck you white people do when you're smiling and batting your eyes at each other but not speaking. how are they supposed to know which one you mean?!

8 i'm going off birth control. and while i should lie and say it's because of the hormones, my vagina believes in being honest. i have no faith in finding someone hot and available and not dumb, plus my babymaker doesn't really work anyway and even if some miracle happened and a zygote attached to my uterine lining all these drugs i take would kill that little cluster of cells in a beat of its tiny undeveloped heart. crohn's > babies. also, i hate babies. i know i'm not supposed to say that. and i don't really hate babies, i just hate the thought of one clawing its way down my fucking birth canal. which leads to another reason i'm giving up dudes and this birth control sham: dudes never want to hear that you don't want to bear their fucking offspring. arrogant sons of bitches. even if they already have seven children, they want to know that you'd be willing to have one for them. and motherfuck that.

and spending a week of every month swollen and batshit crazy because of this artificial estrogen coursing through my veins is retarded as hell.

9 night one with no television was manageable, and i've got the cleanest bathroom on the north side of chicago as a result.

10 i love toast almost as much as i love tacos. ALMOST. and brunch is my favorite thing to roll out of bed at noon on a sunday and do. BIG HINT.

mel took this shot a few years ago.
and not in 1997, as my body art would suggest.
i'm so fucking lame.

i don't think i'm supposed to publicly admit that i like drake. right? i mean, i'm not sure who's buying the millions of ...

pictures, WUT.

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